My name's Greg. I'm 36, divorced, and have been in real estate long enough to know exactly who's faking it--and who's built for this grind. I've got a solid reputation, decent listings, and a growing client base across Northern Utah. I don't do drama. I don't mix business with pleasure. And I sure as hell don't get hung up on married women.
Until Kayla Smith.
I've known Kayla Smith for a few years now. We've crossed paths plenty--open houses, client referrals, regional meetups. She works for a different brokerage, but we've collaborated often enough to become something like friends. The kind that text casually, talk shop over coffee, maybe linger a little too long at networking events. I've always played it cool, kept things professional. But if I'm being honest? There's never been a woman who's made it harder.
Kayla is... magnetic. One of those people who lights up a room without trying. Top realtor in Northern Utah, two kids, a husband who used to serve in the Air Force--on paper, she's impressive as hell. In person, she's something else entirely. She's not just fit--she's strong. Years of yoga, running, cycling, working outdoors, it all shows. Her body is athletic and all woman--tight waist, full hips, a perfect ass that grabs your attention and doesn't let go. And her chest... God. Natural, high, and proud. I've seen her in low-cut dresses at galas and skintight workout gear on her Instagram stories. She wears both like she was born to.
There's a tattoo on her shoulder--delicate, floral, and completely distracting. Her skin is sun-kissed, the kind that makes you think of garden soil under fingernails and sweat glistening down her collarbone in the summer heat. Her hair changes every few months--sometimes curled and loose, other times sleek and straight--but it always frames her face just right. Dimples when she laughs. A nose ring that shouldn't be as sexy as it is. And eyes--warm, brown, endlessly expressive.
She's got this energy to her. A fire. She bakes like she's trying to seduce the flour, gardens in shorts that should be illegal, and talks about her chickens with the kind of joy that makes you want to build her a damn coop yourself. She's the type who finds a new hobby and throws herself into it with the kind of passion that makes your thoughts wander. She doesn't half-ass anything. And that includes how she carries herself. Whether she's showing a million-dollar home or bending into a yoga pose, she owns every inch of space around her.
And me? I pretend I'm not watching. Pretend I'm not imagining how she'd taste if I kissed her after a long run. How she'd sound if I had her pressed up against the granite countertop in her showroom kitchen. I smile, compliment her hustle, joke around like we're just colleagues with history. But when she leans in close to show me a comp on her phone, when her perfume hits me just right--I feel it. All of it.
She's married. She's a mom. She's my friend.
But fuck, Kayla Smith is the woman I can't stop picturing when I'm alone.
It was a Saturday in late May and I was out showing houses with a particularly difficult couple. Well...mainly the wife. The husband I think would have taken the first house he saw. He definitely seemed to me to be the type that just wanted to work and didn't care where he lived. Or where his family lived. But, his wife, nothing made her happy.
The first house, the kitchen was too small, despite her not being a cook. The second house, only had one living room. The third house, backyard was too much. And so on and so on. By the time we reached the sixth and final house of the day, I was ready to be done.
I did have a reason to look forward to the last house. It was an open house being hosted by one of my favorites, Kayla. I had texted her earlier in the day to tell her my clients were interested in the house she was showing and she said she would be there to walk them through it, if they wanted.
When we arrived, Kayla greeted them warmly and me cordially. I followed behind as she toured them through the rather large house. I thought everything was going smoothly, for once. I was already dreaming of the amount of phone calls and texts I would have with Kayla during the negotiations. And then, the wife saw the garage.
"Just where are we supposed to park the RV? We can't keep it outside during the winter in Utah."
You would have thought she would have noticed the lack of an RV garage in the listing. Or when they pulled up. Oh well. Try again next weekend.
I walked my clients outside, saying goodbye and that I would send them any more listings that popped up. Got a very nice thank you from the husband. The wife mentioned something about switching realtors. Yeah, lady, because I was holding out on all the good houses and just not wanting your money.
After watching them drive, I turned and walked back into the house, greeting Kayla a little bit more warmly this time.
"She seems like a delight," Kayla said with a laugh.
"Right? Regular ole life of the party," I told her.
"I thought for sure the kitchen would get her," she responded.
"Or the backyard. Good hang out space, not too much maintenance. Private," I said.
